


Delicate

by remedialpotions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Shell Cottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13874922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remedialpotions/pseuds/remedialpotions
Summary: “They’d held hands before, several times actually, but it was never like this. They’d never been alone in a darkened room, the sound of crashing waves in the distance, with her in a paper-thin nightgown and absolutely nothing left in their way.” Shell Cottage - with a twist. Canon-compliant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: As I’m sure has become quite clear by now, I essentially live and breathe for Shell Cottage fics. This one is two parts and the second will go up next week. I hope you like it! 
> 
> P.S. Please use your imagination for Fleur’s accent. ;)

Hermione awoke with an aching throat, hair plastered to her sweaty forehead, and for a moment, before she opened her eyes, she might have been back at Hogwarts, feeling the castle shudder with explosions around her, fleeing Fiendfyre, restraining an enraged, grief-stricken Ron… but despite the fact that her eyelids felt like lead, she wrenched them open to see the concerned faces of Ginny and Fleur hovering above her.

Right. Of course. The war was won, but she was back at Shell Cottage, having been sent with Ron, Harry and Ginny to wait out Bill’s thorough inspection of the Burrow. Only when he had deemed it clear of any potential curses (and returned the ghoul to his rightful place in the attic, Ron had added hopefully) would the Chosen One and his accomplices be allowed to return. Until then, the protection of the Fidelius Charm would keep them safe.

Physically safe, anyway.

“I’m fine,” she told them instantly, though she wasn’t sure how convincing she was when her voice croaked out like she hadn’t used it in weeks.

“You had a nightmare,” Ginny said sympathetically, her long, vivid hair falling over one shoulder. “You were screaming, I tried to wake you up but I couldn’t.”

Hermione pushed herself into a sitting position and pulled her sweat-sodden t-shirt away from her chest to cool her overheated skin. “Well, what else is new.”

Her brain, she thought bitterly, had probably conditioned itself to have nightmares here. It was about all she’d done in the weeks they’d spent there after escaping from Malfoy Manor, save for the nights when Ron had snuck into her room and curled up in a rickety armchair by her bedside. His low, steady breathing and the knowledge that he was there, and that he was never leaving her again, had been the only thing that had soothed her.

And while she loved Ginny, hers was not the freckled face Hermione wanted to see at the moment.

“I do believe,” Fleur chimed in softly, “that we still have some Dreamless Sleep potion in the cupboard-“

“No, thank you,” Hermione interrupted, glancing over Fleur’s head to the open doorway. Where on earth was Ron, anyway? He and Harry were sleeping right next door - in theory, anyway - and if she’d been screaming, he had to have heard...

“It will help,” Fleur said. “And you need something clean to sleep in. I will be back.”

As she swept out the door, Ginny returned to the other bed in the room, but sat atop the blankets rather than under them.

“This happens to me all the time,” Hermione told her, realizing as she spoke that her words weren’t exactly reassuring.

“Then maybe you do need the potion-“ Ginny’s looked past Hermione suddenly toward the door. “Oh. Hi.”

Hermione turned her head to see Ron, in a pair of faded plaid sleep trousers and a grey t-shirt, leaning against the door jamb.

“Are you all right?” he asked Hermione, ignoring his sister altogether. “I thought I heard-“

“Just a nightmare.”

There was a creaking of rusty bedsprings as Ginny got to her feet again. “If anyone asks,” she said as she padded to the door, “I’m in the loo.”

Ron stepped aside to allow her to exit, and then his attention fell to Hermione again. His shaggy hair looked as though he’d been running his fingers through it, and he looked right on the verge of saying something, doing something. But she felt it selfish, in a way, for her to wish that he would act on what she knew was going through his head. The world had not simply clicked back into place after Tom Riddle’s death, after all: Ron’s family had been irreparably broken, and there were still Death Eaters at large, and clearly these nightmares weren’t going away anytime soon.

“Hermione-“

“Here you go,” came Fleur’s heavily accented voice from behind Ron as she bustled back into the room. In her hands was small vial of potion and a folded garment of palest blue cotton, both of which she set on the bedside table beside a flickering lantern and a stolen wand.

“Thank you, Fleur.”

“You are welcome, now, go to sleep,” she added with a pointed look to Ron. “You need your rest.”

“Right,” stammered Ron, “but I just-“

“I’m fine,” said Hermione, locking her eyes on his. “I really am.”

With a hasty nod, Ron stepped back into the hallway and out of sight.

“Drink the potion,” Fleur instructed again, and then she did as Ron had and disappeared.

Hermione regarded these new offerings with what she felt was a healthy dose of skepticism. She was sure she didn’t need a sleeping potion if she could only find a way to have Ron in the same room with her, but Fleur was surely under orders from Mrs. Weasley to keep the sleeping arrangements as they’d always been at the Burrow.

And then there was the nightgown Fleur has provided, clearly from the depths of her own wardrobe. Hermione appreciated her generosity, of course, but it really was a fussy little garment, paper thin and edged with lace and falling just above her knees. It couldn’t possibly be comfortable to sleep in, but nevertheless, she changed into it and shoved her own pajamas down to the depths of her beaded bag.

Just as she was about to crawl back into bed, the doorknob began to turn, so slowly that Hermione suspected she might have been imagining it.

“Ginny?” she called hesitantly.

“Er-“ The voice on the other side was decidedly more masculine. “No, it’s me, but I can go-“

“No!” Hermione blurted out. “No, no, come in.”

If she sounded over-eager, she really didn’t care: she supposed she had practically personified the sentiment when she had flung herself at him in the midst of a battle, and she wasn’t too concerned with subtlety anymore. She didn’t need to hide how she felt, to toe some arbitrary line they had drawn for themselves. Honesty, openness, that was what they needed now.

And now it didn’t seem so selfish to want him here; he clearly wanted it too.

Ron slipped into the room, closing the door soundlessly behind him, his eyes widening for half a second at her attire.

“It’s Fleur’s,” Hermione explained, sitting down on the bed, her back against the headboard. Her legs, marred by bruises and burn marks, extended across the mattress.

“Yeah, I reckoned.” Ron’s throat bobbed as he crossed the small room and seated himself beside her, so close that their thighs touched.

“I’m sorry that I woke you.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” he replied. “‘Sides, I wasn’t really sleeping anyway. I was sort of - er, listening for you. Hoping I wouldn’t hear anything, obviously, but then when I did - Ginny and Fleur got there first.”

“And I told you that I’m fine.”

“Are you really?”

Hermione looked down at his hand, his long fingers splayed on his thigh. There was barely a millimeter of his skin that wasn’t burned or scarred or scraped in some way. A few months ago - hell, a few days ago, even - she might have kept her distance, allowed all of the reasons for that distance to prevail, told herself that the war was more important, but now everything had changed. In one brutal, monumental night, the war had been won, and their futures stretched out in front of them, long and bright and completely unencumbered.

So she reached over, trying to keep herself from shaking, and let her fingertips graze over the back of his hand. As she reached his knuckles, he rotated his wrist so that their palms met, and his fingers slipped between hers. Her stomach quivered at the contact between them, which she almost couldn’t believe. They’d held hands before, several times actually, but it was never like this. They’d never been alone in a darkened room, the sound of crashing waves in the distance, with her in a paper-thin nightgown and absolutely nothing left in their way.

“As fine as I can be,” Hermione said honestly. “What about you? Are you all right?”

Ron’s thumb drifted over the back of hers. “Dunno,” he muttered. “Not really, if I’m honest. I just thought it’d be different, the end.”

“I think we all did. Or, at least, we hoped.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, a bit morose. “Reckon I’m just glad you’re all right - y’know, relatively speaking - but I really thought your nightmares had stopped,” he piped up suddenly, seeming to just now remember this. “The last week or so, you didn’t have any, did you?”

“Oh - well-“ Her mind went temporarily blank; Ron had started idly lacing and unlacing their fingers together, and the arresting intimacy of the action forced all other thoughts from her brain. “No, I didn’t, but that’s only because you were there.”

The movement of Ron’s fingers slowed, but his eyes seemed to be following the motion of their hands. “Because of me?”

“It helped,” said Hermione. “It made me feel safe, knowing you were there… that you’d always be there.”

A tension seemed to seep out of Ron then, a sort of weight seemed to lift from him. He pressed his palm against hers, the pads of his fingers digging into the back of her hand.

“I will be,” he said, his voice gentle yet firm. “There, y’know, for you - Merlin,” he suddenly exclaimed, “why I am such rubbish at this?”

“You’re not. I promise you, you’re not.”

His mouth cracked into a reluctant, crooked smile, and a shaky breath issued from his lips. “Hermione?”

“Yes,” she stated firmly.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “But you don’t know what I’m asking.”

“Still yes.”

“I could have been asking if you’ve ever fancied Mr. Filch.”

“But you weren’t,” said Hermione. “But it doesn’t matter, because whatever you’re asking me - for you, the answer’s yes.”

Ron’s front teeth grazed along his upper lip, and Hermione found herself mesmerized by the movements of his mouth, trying desperately to recall what he had tasted like earlier that day and how much better it would be now that they weren’t fearful for their lives… but she wasn’t imagining it now that his face was drawing nearer to hers, and now she could make out each of his eyelashes, and the little cluster of freckles on the side of his nose…

The waves outside crashed harder now, the tide coming in, and Hermione almost leaned in, she almost went for it again - but Ron beat her to it. His breath was warm on her mouth for the split second before his lips met hers, tentative, careful. The hand that had been gripping hers slackened around her fingers and slid up her forearm, leaving gooseflesh in its wake as the kiss deepened. The way his hand shook as it trailed up her skin, Hermione knew he was trying to hold himself back, trying to move slowly. And honestly? He didn’t have to.

“Erm,” he breathed as he tore his lips from hers, chest heaving, “what if - Ginny - she could come back-“ His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“I don’t think she was ever planning to actually go to the loo,” Hermione said gently, laughing a bit when Ron winced and leaned his forehead on hers. “So… you should stay in here tonight. With me.”

Ron leaned back to meet her eyes. “Really?”

“Yes.”

If there was one thing she was sure of, it was him. The world had been turned upside down in the course of a day. She didn’t know what would come next for the Weasleys, or Harry, or how she would even begin to find her parents in Australia (it was possible that she had hidden them too well), but she had not a shadow of a doubt about Ron. And she knew, as she picked up a stolen wand from the bedside table and locked the door, exactly what she was implying. And despite the pounding of her heart, and the sudden inability of her lungs to properly draw breath, she still felt certain of what she wanted.

And she kissed him again.

_to be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

  
It occurred to her, as Ron’s hand grazed over her upper arm, pulling her closer, that she’d already gone farther with him after three kisses than she had with anyone else. She supposed she should have been nervous, or compelled to take things slow, but she had no misgivings where Ron was concerned. In a way, she felt she had always known it would end up this way, that it was always going to be him. Everything and everyone else, all of the tension and miscommunication and charged moments, they were just stops along the way to this very moment.

Ron’s hand moved up higher, so that his fingertips nudged their way under the lacy hem of her sleeve, and Hermione felt her stomach threaten to flip again. The very idea of his hands under her clothes, as minimal as it was right now, sent a thrill through her veins. She leaned in closer, parting her lips, finding his tongue eagerly slipping over hers. His hand kept moving up, over her shoulder and along the side of her neck until he had cradled her face against his palm.

He wasn’t shaking anymore. His mouth pressed ardently against hers, almost hungrily, but there seemed to be an eagerness now rather than reservation, and Hermione welcomed it. Shifting onto her knees, she placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the grooves of his Splinching scar through his faded t-shirt. Suddenly she was desperate to see more of him, to assure herself that he was really there, and alive, and safe. They nearly lost everything when they showed up at Hogwarts, and nothing was perfect, not yet. But she still had him.

As she broke the kiss and opened her mouth to speak, his free hand came to her waist and guided her onto his lap, evoking from her lips a light, startled yelp.

“Sorry,” he breathed, “I didn’t mean - is this okay?”

“Yes,” she nodded, ducking her head to kiss him again and almost going dizzy as his hand stroked up her bare thigh. “Ron,” she managed around a kiss, “have you ever done this before?”

“ _This_?” he asked, incredulous, gesturing vaguely at the close contact between them. “No.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do, and the answer’s still no.” He angled his face up toward hers again, but paused. “Did you think I had?”

Well, if she was really honest with herself… “No,” she admitted. “I suppose I was just… checking.”

“Right,” he smiled as his mouth met hers again. His hand continued its agonizingly slow path up her leg, the pads of his fingers burning into her flesh, as his mouth dragged over her cheek and down her jaw. “Hermione,” he muttered into the pulse point of her throat, “I’ve wanted this…” His lips brushed her skin. “For so long…”

“So have I,” she found herself saying back.

Something was racing through her now, something other than adrenaline or desire, as his hand slid up higher so that his thumb locked into the crease of her hip. For so long, she had locked away her feelings, kept them tightly under wraps out of necessity, because Harry and the war had to come first, but the war was blessedly over. Everything she had pushed away now surged to the forefront, guiding her every movement, her every thought. Running a hand down his side, she bundled the fabric of his t-shirt in her fist, tugging up to reveal creamy, freckled skin and more than a few bruises and scrapes. Ron pulled his lips from her neck just long enough to reach behind his head and yank off his shirt, his mouth twisting into a sheepish grin.

“Er…” He touched the side of her neck lightly with a finger. “I might’ve left a mark.”

“I don’t care,” she replied, letting her hands rest on his chest, noticing not for the first time the smattering of copper hair on his sternum.

Once, back in the tent, she had caught a glimpse of him emerging from the shower in just a towel (though she’d quickly pretended to be reading _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ ). He had been so, so dreadfully skinny then, every rib visible through his skin, his elbows sharp points, but a month of Fleur’s hearty cooking and a warm place to sleep had done him a world of good. He was still slim - and she supposed he always would be - but his lean muscles had returned, and she let her hands roam over the ridges of his chest and down his abdomen - but then his lips were back on hers and his hand was back under the hem of her nightgown, and she forgot to keep thinking about the past.

“Hermione,” he muttered again, his mouth forming her name against her lips, “if we’re going to do - something - I need you to know-“ He kissed her squarely on the lips again, like it was oxygen and he couldn’t be without it for too long, and if she was honest, she felt the same- “I love you-“ His voice had dropped an octave- “I’ve been so in love with you for years-“

“I know,” she interrupted, “I know, and I love you too-“

The look that crossed his face, she’d never seen it before, never that much relief and disbelief and awe, but then he leaned forward and caught her lips with more passion than ever before.

And it was this exact moment that she realized that his thumb was touching her knickers, just below her hip bone, and she nodded into their kiss, hoping to convey to him that she welcomed any moves he made now. Beneath her thigh, she could feel the evidence of his own desire quite clearly (evidence that seemed rather thick and long, not that she had any frame of reference), and as she shifted to bring herself closer, he moaned softly into her mouth. She couldn’t help herself, then: she rubbed against him, craving more of him, needing to know she had the same effect on him that he had on her. The mattress creaked with each movement, quiet yet rhythmic, and Ron groaned again, his teeth grazing her bottom lip.

“Wait,” Hermione whispered, holding still for a moment. “I’ve just remembered. I share a wall with Fleur.”

“Oh. Right.”

Reluctantly, Hermione climbed off of him and fetched the stolen wand again, firing a whispered “ _Muffliato_ ” at the door.

“I reckon you approve of that spell now?” Ron teased as Hermione set the wand on the edge of the bedside table.

“Well, it is useful sometimes, but if you think I shouldn’t have used it-“

“No, no, come back here,” he grinned, his hands on her waist to pull her back to the bed.

Rather than draw her onto his lap, he flipped her onto her back and crawled over her, his mouth on her neck and his weight pressing her into the bed. Her legs, almost instinctively, bent at either side of his torso and her nightgown pooled around her hips. This was growing serious, now. This was no longer just snogging, not when he was digging into her inner thigh and a pulsing warmth was building at her center. Ginny had not even attempted to return, and they had just transformed the room into a fortress. This was happening.

Her hands were on his back, drifting slowly down to the waistband of his pajama bottoms, her nails skipping along his bare skin. She thought, for a second, about dipping her hands inside, but his own hand had returned to her waist and was moving up, up, up-

“Oh,” said Ron, startled as his hand cupped under her bare breast. “You’re not wearing-“

“No,” she confirmed, her stomach starting to shake again when his hand moved over her and his thumb glanced over her nipple. “Oh, do that again,” she requested, not realizing she had spoken aloud until she felt him touching her.

His mouth landed on her collarbone, covering her skin in wet and sloppy kisses, her own ragged breath and the occasional creaking of the bed filling the room. The nightgown had hitched up by her ribs, inching higher with every movement of his hands, and she decided she’d never much liked the thing, and it was high time she stopped wearing it. Nudging Ron gently away, she sat up just enough to wiggle the gown up and over her head, tossing it to the floor where Ron’s shirt lay.

When she opened her eyes again, Ron was blinking rapidly at her, swallowing thickly at the sight of all of her bare skin. “You,” he said hoarsely as he kissed the curve of her shoulder and pinned her back to the bed, “you’re so fucking beautiful-“

She had an impulse to disagree - she never thought her looks were anything write home about - but if Ron thought so, who was she to argue? She could never imagine anyone more attractive than him, and maybe that was why they worked so well together. They saw the best in each other.

Ron was shaking again. His breath fell erratically on her skin as he moved his attention further down her chest, carefully pressing his lips to the curve of her breast. Hermione couldn’t help but watch him in mild disbelief, _knowing_ this was her life, _knowing_ that this had always been in the cards for them but still amazed that it was happening now, here, at long last. As she let her hands rest on his shoulders, she found she was trembling too, a gasp escaping her lips as he touched his tongue to her nipple. He moved slowly, gently, but still all coherent thought fled her mind and she was consumed only by him, his mouth, the vibrations of his throat as he moaned against her.

And yet she still wanted more. She wanted to run her hands over his skin the way he was doing to her now, to make him feel as brilliant as she did, so she reached again for the waistband of his trousers… only to find she couldn’t quite reach. Of course. His height, which she loved about him - it made her feel safer somehow - was backfiring on her. She pressed her fingertips into his waist, squeezing until he looked up at her, and she beckoned wordlessly to him so that he rose up and crushed his lips to hers. Now, though so much of his skin pressing against so much of hers was making her head spin, she boldly pushed the waistband of his pajamas down his hips.

Hermione wanted to study him - something of a side effect of her unending curiosity - but he was already prone to self-consciousness and she didn’t think gawking at him, even out of admiration, would go over well, so instead she wrapped her hand around his length and stroked down the velvety skin.

“Oh, fuck,” Ron groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck, that’s-“

“Am I doing this right?” asked Hermione worriedly.

“Too right,” he nodded hastily, “if you don’t stop, I-“

“Oh.” Hermione paused, a blush rising in her cheeks as she removed her hand from him and he kicked the trousers to the floor. “Then just kiss me.”

A smile crossed his lips as he leaned toward her again, his kiss somehow gentle and yet intense. The pulsing between her legs had grown strong and insistent, desperate to be sated, so she angled her hips up into his and ground against him. Messy, haphazard kisses passed between them, tongues clashing, anxious sighs and moans filling the air. There was so little between them now, just the flimsy cotton of her knickers, and as he bumped up between her legs, she decided she had never been more ready for this, for _him_.

“Do you know the charms?” asked Ron, whose face had gone a wonderfully familiar shade of scarlet. “Oh, what am I thinking, of course you do.”

“I do,” she said, meeting his lips in another kiss and then reaching for the stolen wand on the nightstand.

Ron kneeled between her open legs as she cast a spell first on herself, then on him. As the wand clattered to the floor, Ron hooked his fingers into her knickers and pulled them down, briefly moving to the side so he could draw them fully down her legs. The last barrier had finally gone, and, her heart thudding in her chest, she slid her legs apart as their hips aligned.

It seemed there wasn’t a millimeter of their skin that wasn’t touching, chests and stomachs now sticky with sweat and glued together, as Ron laid another soft kiss on her lips. He pulled away and as their eyes met, an unspoken agreement passed between them. His tip pressed between her folds, and even this light contact was enough to make her breath hitch in her throat.

“It’s okay,” Hermione told him, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m okay.”

Ron’s throat bobbed as he nodded, and Hermione closed her eyes as he slid further inside. She wanted to memorize this sensation, they’d never have another first time of being truly joined together like this and she needed to burn it into her brain, this feeling that she could burst from the magnitude of it all.

She’d been conditioned throughout her adolescence, she realized, to expect that this would be painful. But now, it was more so that she was simply stretching, accommodating him, and he seemed to understand this, pausing once he had filled her to the hilt so that she could adjust. Clamping her knees at his sides, Hermione looked up at him, at his messy fringe and shining blue eyes and that cluster of freckles right by his nose, and picked her head up off the pillow to kiss him. God, she loved him, why did she deny herself this for so long? Why had she let petty things come in the way, why did she shut him out for weeks after his return, when this is what could have been? They had both admitted to wanting this for years, and now… now, they could have it.

Ron withdrew about half an inch and then pushed back in, then again, and again, until he had set a slow, gentle rhythm. Her arms around his neck, Hermione buried her face in his shoulder, placing an errant kiss or two on his skin. She couldn’t catch her breath, not when he was flooding her senses like this and she was gladly drowning in him. Now that she had adapted to his size and to the presence of him inside her, she could appreciate this even more, and she sighed into his ear, her fingers threaded through his hair. His lips glanced over her forehead and over her temple, bestowing kisses wherever he could reach, an urgency behind his every action. Whether he realized it or not, he had picked up speed, but Hermione welcomed it, her own light sighs evolving into moans of pleasure, her mind wiped of all thoughts except him. The mattress whined beneath them as his thrusts grew erratic, and with a mumbled expletive, he spilled into her, his breath hot on her neck.

He didn’t pull out right away, instead placing wet, warm kisses on the curve of her shoulder. Hermione lazily raked his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, more content than she had ever been in her life.

“I love you,” she told him softly, wanting to be the first to say it this time.

“I love you too.” He kissed up her neck and gave a playful nibble to her earlobe. “This-“ He furrowed his brow and withdrew, turning onto his side to face her. “This is it for us, innit? We won’t be stupid anymore?”

“I won’t if you won’t,” she said with a smile.

“I promise to do my best.”

Hermione rolled onto her hip and caught his smiling lips with hers, sighing into his mouth as his hand reached out to brush her hair away from her face.

“I suppose we should get dressed,” she said, a bit rueful. If she had her way, she would have stayed with him, just like this, but the sound of the waves against the shore reminded her that despite the apparent solitude, there was a world outside of this tiny room, and they had to rejoin it eventually.

“Hmm,” Ron mused, kissing her lightly again. “Unfortunately, yeah, you’re probably right.”

Rather than fetch Fleur’s fussy little nightgown from the floor, Hermione claimed Ron’s t-shirt for herself and slid back into her knickers, then shamelessly watched as Ron pulled on his pajama bottoms. She was allowed to admire him now in a way she never could before, and she relished it.

As she crawled beneath the rumpled sheets, which were now sweat-damp for a completely different and far more wonderful reason, Ron knelt on the bed beside her and kissed her warmly on the lips.

“Should we lift the charms?” asked Hermione, holding up a corner of the duvet so Ron could join her.

“Nah,” he shrugged. “Let’s stay by ourselves just a little longer.”

As they laid down on the bed, Ron pulled her back flush against his chest, his arms securely around her waist, his lips ghosting a kiss on the back of her neck… and just like that, they drifted peacefully into sleep.

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Please review :)_


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